The Chelsea Girls(18)

As her mother’s apology slid into tears, Hazel packed a bag and jumped in a cab. She gave the driver the name of the Chelsea Hotel and stared out the window as the taxi pulled up to the redbrick building, a handsome melding of Victorian Gothic and Queen Anne styles that loomed over Twenty-Third Street.

Her plan was to stay there for a few days and collect herself, cool off. She wasn’t called in to work this week anyway, and she needed a break from her mother’s self-pity and recriminations.

In the lobby, she examined the eclectic mix of art on the walls. One was signed de Kooning, and she remembered seeing his first one-man show a couple of years earlier. Victorian flourishes filled the foyer, including a massive mahogany fireplace that wouldn’t be out of place in a Scottish castle. Tables with gleaming marble tops reflected the circular chandelier. The furniture was too big for the size of the room, but the high ceilings helped manage the scale.

A young couple stood at the front desk, chatting with the clerk. The woman tottered on heels so high Hazel was amazed she’d been able to navigate the foyer, and had a purple fascinator perched on her head that matched the suit clinging to her slender frame. She turned around and gave Hazel a tentative smile.

The woman was a man. With five-o’clock shadow and thick eyebrows. In women’s clothing. The couple disappeared into the elevator.

“All right, miss.” The man behind the counter tugged at the brown bow tie around his neck and motioned to Hazel, entirely unperturbed by the strange sight. “What can I help you with?”

She tried to remain unruffled, as if being here were perfectly normal. Maxine had warned her the place was eccentric. “I’d like a room, please. Nothing fancy. I’ll be here for a few days.”

He looked at his register and frowned. “We’re almost fully booked. Who are you, exactly?”

The question threw her. “I’m sorry?”

“Who are you? What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.” She’d never said that out loud before. Never dared to. The words hung in the air.

The man perked up considerably. “We’ve had a number of famous writers here. O. Henry in room 412, Edgar Lee Masters in 214. Thomas Wolfe wrote Look Homeward, Angel in 829. Mark Twain lived here as well. You a novelist?” He spoke with a vaguely European accent that Hazel couldn’t place.

“No. A playwright.”

“Huh. In that case.” The man scribbled something down in his register. “What’s your name?”

“Hazel Ripley.”

“Sign here.”

She did so, and snapped open her pocketbook.

“No need for that yet,” he said. “Let’s get you settled first. You seem like a nice enough girl.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Full name’s David Bard. At your service. You got any problems, you just come to me. My office is around the corner.” He plucked a key off a hook and led her to the elevator. His upbeat manner and ill-fitting suit endeared him to her immediately.

A weathered bellhop appeared, wearing a frayed navy uniform that looked about as old as he was. He picked up her suitcase and followed them inside the elevator.

“This here is Percy,” said Mr. Bard. “And in case you need anything fixed, ask for Krauss.”

She reminded him that she was only there for a few days. “I doubt I’ll need a handyman.”

He just smiled.

They got out on the fifth floor and walked past a wide marble staircase that spiraled through the middle of the building, its railing studded with bronzed-iron passionflowers.

Mr. Bard opened the door to one of the rooms at the very end of the hallway, and Hazel gasped. Rows of handsome bookcases lined one wall, with a fireplace opposite. A solid rosewood beam separated two open spaces, the walls of one painted a robin’s-egg blue and the other a sunny yellow, with golden wood floors that ran on the diagonal. Matching red brocade chairs flanked the fireplace, but the rest of the furniture trumpeted mismatched patterns and colors that unexpectedly blended in with one another. Stained glass in the transom windows topped off the room’s riot of colors and textures.

To the left was a small kitchen. A bedroom sat just off the main room, its decor only slightly more subdued than that of the salon.

She thought of her meager savings. “This is beautiful, but I can’t possibly afford it.”

“I’m afraid it’s all we have. But you’re only here for a few days, you say, right? Let’s agree on fifteen dollars a night and call it a day.” He laughed at his joke.

“Are you sure? Once I’m here, I may never want to leave.”

He smiled. “Won’t be the first time. Price is cheaper by the month, by the way. If you’re a true artist, and I can tell just by looking at you, you are, this is the place for you. Back when it was built, the plan was to make it a utopia for creative minds, whether poor or rich. The Chelsea was the tallest building in New York City until 1902. We still have a roof garden where you can enjoy the view.”

Hazel let him ramble on at length. This was obviously a man who enjoyed his work.

After he left, she unpacked the few items she’d brought with her and placed her typewriter and manuscript on the small desk. In the kitchen, she checked the icebox, which was empty, and poured a glass of water from the sink, realizing after the first sip that the cold tap ran hot water, and vice versa.